


A Game of Sorts

by Eva



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Masturbation, Stalking, implicit threats
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-19
Updated: 2012-02-18
Packaged: 2017-10-31 10:13:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 5,736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/342870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eva/pseuds/Eva
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim plays an end game.  Mycroft plays along.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

*********

The most beautiful thing about the house was that it was protected by its owner’s anonymity (and a rather expensive security system, yes, but Jim had been breaking those at twelve). Tall windows, dark walls, rich wood floors and tasteful rugs. Jim brushed the tips of his fingers along the walls, painted in delicate shades of not-quite-white, as he sauntered to the bedroom.

Even if he hadn’t checked (sixteen operatives, round-the-clock surveillance for a month straight, and hadn’t they been so surprised to discover the wages for this little project), Jim would have known immediately, walking into the room, the door swinging open silently and the air stirring just a bit, that he had slept there. Perhaps even just the night before. 

He smiled to himself, fitting his hand over the round doorknob and pressing with his palm, imagining his hand there, cool enough that even had he held it for any length of time it would still be chill. So cool, the elder Holmes. Ice.

Jim licked his lips and gave the doorknob one more rub before letting go, stepping inside the room and looking around in sheer, breathless delight.

No 221B was this; no messes, no headphones on skulls. Just a closet, dresser, and bed; a nightstand on either side; a door to a bathroom, no doubt. Oh, that would be his personal shower, wouldn’t it? Standing in there in the mornings, all wet and steamy, meeting his own dark eyes in the mirror—

With a little huff of laughter, Jim knelt to remove his shoes. The rest of the house; pageantry. The office and the club were where he lived. And here, one small, shadowed, vulnerable space, where he slept.

He took off his socks, too, and stood for a moment with his eyes closed, working his toes into the thick carpet. Soft, and he wondered if perhaps he walked there barefoot, too, and had to reach for the door again. 

This is what he’d wanted to feel, what he’d been sure he’d feel, when he met Sherlock—hilarious, now. Almost. Because Sherlock had been too fucking easy, even when Jim had shown his hand, staged his execution and let him go. Oh, parting is such sweet sorrow, but by the end of it Jim would have something new, something to work for, because Sherlock would take care of his network and set Jim absolutely free to pursue more interesting things.

More rewarding things. He made his way to the bathroom and sighed, leaning on the doorjamb, wondering if he had time enough to roll around in that tub and bring himself off with a hand slicked up in soap. He slid his index finger around the bowl of the sink; bone dry. Well.

The dresser was calling.

Jim stepped back into the bedroom and shrugged off his jacket, letting it fall to the floor. Shirt and tie followed; then trousers, belt, and pants. He pulled open the second drawer and smiled; pyjamas, neatly folded. Silk, and in pleasantly cool colours. He chose a pair that was a deep, navy blue, handling it with exquisite care, lifting it and mouthing at a button on the shirt before remembering: control.

He had plans for the evening, and they didn’t involve blowing his load all over a dresser.

He pulled the shirt on first, leaving it open and admiring the smooth folds, wriggling a bit to get the fabric to ghost over his skin—the first fluttering touch of the hem on his thigh made him groan aloud and he slid his hands down over his torso, pressing the silk to skin in greedy abandon. It was almost too much not to take himself in hand, and so he forewent the trousers, although he stroked them with a fond regret before turning to the bed.

Perfectly made, duvet straight and sheets crisp. Jim leaned close and breathed deep; maybe, if he strained, he could catch a hint of some warm, male scent—not terribly warm, because this was Mycroft Holmes, after all. Jim shuddered in pleasure and scrambled into the bed, burying his face in the pillow and groaning loudly as he worked his hips, sheets almost too smooth to offer any friction worth mentioning. He bit the pillow and grinned around his mouthful as saliva wet the smooth fabric, and then he let it go to flip over onto his back, head between the two pillows now, rising up on either side of his face and directing his vision up to the ceiling.

He grabbed himself then, squeezing tight and moving fast, whimpers escaping his mouth even when he brought his other hand up to his mouth and bit down on the sleeve of the pyjama shirt, sucking it and trying uselessly to tear it, just for the sheer sensual pleasure of the silk sliding between his teeth. The sleeve on his other arm rubbed against hipbone as he jacked himself harder, remembering cold, calculating eyes and that thin yet sensual mouth, lips that gave away when he was thinking with each tiny quirk—

“Fuck,” he gasped, rubbing his hand over his face and reaching up to grab the headboard, to hold it, toes curling into the cool sheet and he was so ready, shaking with it and trying to hold on, picturing those lips twisting around words that held no fucking meaning and those hands that never touched him, never once tried to wring answers out of him, but he would have them, oh yes. He would have those hands on his body, he would have his own on Mycroft’s body, stripped bare and warming up under his assault.

And it would be an assault; it would be a war, and Jim’s hips jerked hard as he thought about it: biting every inch of that tall, buttoned, hidden body—

“Oh, god,” he gasped, and his back arched—Christ, he hadn’t felt it like this since he was a kid—heat rushing through him, too much and so good, his head shaking back and forth and his mouth open as it overwhelmed him. He came silently, hand still working with a feverish intensity, until he just couldn’t—had to let go, had to lay there gasping, pleasure echoing through him, making him feel hollow and used and so, so goddamn good. In the warmth he’d created, in the mess he’d wreaked, in Mycroft Holmes’ bed.

“One day, with you in it,” he murmured.

*********


	2. Chapter 2

*********

He felt almost… nervous. Boyishly so. The way he affected to feel when meeting Sherlock at St. Bart’s. Oh, he’d felt a rush of excitement then; he won’t lie. But it paled in comparison to the nervous fluttering and glorious heat that prickled under his skin at just the thought of feeling that cool gaze on him again.

He knocked politely on the door, and then let himself in.

There was a light at the end of the hall; he was in the study, then. A shame they wouldn’t be meeting in the bedroom. Jim let his hand brush the wall again, but this time he curled his fingers in, so that his nails could scratch.

“Mr. Moriarty,” Mycroft said, his voice cold and yet genteel. Jim had yet to push the door the rest of the way open, and took a moment to let his eyes fall shut and a shudder move through his body, biting his lip against a sigh.

Then he licked his lower lip, making sure it would gleam in the low light, and pushed through the doorway.

Mycroft was sitting at the desk—the large, heavy, wooden desk, in front of the two glass doors that opened out to the garden. A wall and an escape. Jim smiled, taking a moment to let his gaze wander appreciatively: navy suit, white shirt, red tie. Should be respectable, staid; on him, it looked sinister. 

And sexy. Mycroft’s hands were folded atop the desk, and his lips were pressed together tightly. Jim wanted to lick every elegant line.

“‘evening, Mycroft,” he said, and took the seat in front of the desk. He crossed his legs politely and settled deep in the chair, putting his hands up in the Holmes thinking stance. He liked it. It was an oddly sensual pose.

“May I congratulate you on your recovery?” Mycroft asked. His glare was so fucking icy that Jim was breaking out into a sweat. He licked his lips again and shifted to make himself more comfortable; the glare only got darker. Oh. Oh yes.

“If you’ll allow me to congratulate Sherly on his,” he said, and gave into the inevitable, sitting with legs open. Mycroft’s eyes narrowed, but otherwise he made no movement; he didn’t even appear to be breathing. “Oh, come on. You didn’t think I’d fall for it, did you?”

There it was, the tell: the quirk of his lips. Jim let a smile stretch his own wide and brought one hand down, trailing it over his tie; the other he lay on the armrest. “You’re fucking gorgeous when that brain is working,” he said, and started to toy with his belt buckle.

“We’ll destroy your organisation,” Mycroft snapped. “All of your agents—”

“Bo-ring,” Jim sighed, and palmed himself through his trousers. Mycroft’s nostrils went white, and he laughed in absolute delight. “Oh, darling,” he gasped, “you don’t know what you do to me.”

“I have no interest in your little games,” Mycroft said, standing up. The chair moved back smoothly and Jim bit back a groan at the reveal of those trim hips. “Your network will be disposed of in months, if it takes that long, and then—”

“And then I’ll send Sherlock a thank you card,” Jim interrupted, and pressed against his half-hard cock again, watching Mycroft’s jaw work with impotent anger. “Oh. Uh. I got bored; didn’t you guess? Don’t you get it, darling?” His eyelids fell half-shut as he stroked himself gently, trying not to speed up—didn’t want him to run off just yet. “The faster Sherlock takes care of my unfinished business, the sooner you’ll be rid of me… but until then, I’m going to state my desires quite plainly.”

“So I discovered,” Mycroft said, his voice fairly choked with fury. Jim dug his nails into the armrest and bit his lip, stroking a bit harder. “This location, having been compromised—”

“You don’t want me to disappear,” Jim said, pushing up into his hand, staring fixedly at Mycroft’s hips. “You—you want to keep tabs on me, don’t you? But nothing I’d object to; nothing to make me, uh. Make me make you… reconsider.”

“I won’t be hounded by you,” Mycroft said quietly.

Jim couldn’t have stopped rocking into his palm if he tried; he forced himself to speak through panting breaths and tiny, gasped groans. “Oh—you—you don’t have that choice, love. For your brother, yes? Ohh—”

He pushed hard, the heat igniting, unable to keep his eyes open any longer—his breath caught and he dug his nails into the leather so hard one ripped away. He didn’t feel it; he didn’t feel anything but the shuddering ache of pleasure, of being submerged in it, spent and weak in the wake of it.

Mycroft was gone.

Jim smiled, and settled deeper into the chair.

*********


	3. Chapter 3

*********

Mycroft sat up in bed, suddenly and completely awake. 

And yet it held a tinge of nightmare; he knew what would happen next. The door would swing open, slowly, pushed by a hesitant hand—he could hear the whisper of fingers and palm on the wood. But this was not his childhood room; Sherlock would not be standing there, four years old and refusing to detail the dream that had driven him from sleep. Nor an older Sherlock, seven years, perhaps, rebelling against the hours their parents tried to make them keep.

The door swung open. Jim leaned against the jamb, dark hair and eyes, ghost-pale skin.

Not Sherlock at all.

“I didn’t really believe you slept,” Jim whispered, one hand on the jamb, almost cuddled up to it. “Were you?”

Mycroft stared. The duvet, fallen neatly into folds on his lap, felt heavier than lead. He wondered if Jim had gone to the master bedroom first, or if he had known Mycroft would concede that battle. If he considered it a battle, even. His self-destructiveness was too difficult to read.

“If you were, I thought…” Jim smiled, and a chill touched Mycroft’s spine. “I wanted to watch you.”

“Get out,” he said evenly. He did not clench his hands into fists, he did not spit the words; oh, how he wanted to do both. And more.

“If you give me a kiss,” Jim said, and sauntered into the room. His jumper almost glowed in the gloom; a ghostly white or cream. “Send me off nicely. Or let me stay.”

Mycroft tracked him, following his approach with narrowed eyes. He didn’t move until Jim made to sit at the right side of the bed, and then he was up and moving briskly, out the door.

He was in the study, leaning on the glass doors behind the desk, when Jim entered. Shuffling still, in socked feet, like a child. Smiling up at him mischievously in the low light. “You wish you could kill me.”

There was no chair in front of the desk now, and Jim sat on its edge instead, obligingly leaving the expanse of it between them. Mycroft did not flinch at the feeling of those eyes moving over his body, though he felt as if they were leaving trails of slime. 

“Why not do it?” Jim asked. He slid his hand closer, leaning a bit over the desk. His eyes were wide and deep, reflecting no light. “They’re nothing to you. Not a one of them. A man like you needs no one, correct?”

Mycroft said nothing.

“What a pity,” Jim breathed. His nails curled over the smooth desktop. “What a joke. I really thought it was Sherlock; I really did. But Ms. Adler proved us wrong in that, didn’t she?” He scratched at the desk, grinning slyly at the sound, though Mycroft had yet to flinch. “Did he apologise, I wonder? For ruining all your hard work?”

Mycroft tilted his head, wondering what Jim would make of that gesture.

“I did him a favour,” Jim said, and sat up straighter. “You’ve never let him run into a consequence his entire life, have you? Smoothed things over with his teachers; terrorised his schoolmates.” He shook his head, teeth bared in a mirthless grin. “You ruined him. And now he’s ruined you.” He licked his lips, staring at Mycroft’s bare throat. “Now you’re mine, until he can make things right, and you won’t even tell him. Won’t risk his friends; won’t risk his plan; won’t risk his pretty little head being opened to just the idea of consequence.”

He slumped again, looking up at Mycroft through his eyelashes. “You should have drowned him when he was still a baby,” he said in a confiding sort of whisper.

Mycroft straightened at last. “No,” he said, and walked around the desk to leave.

“Wouldn’t even have been a waste,” Jim called after him. “He isn’t half the genius you are, my dear.”

“He doesn’t have to be,” Mycroft snapped just before the door clicked shut behind him.

*********


	4. Chapter 4

*********

He thought something in grey today, dark and pinstriped. Charcoal, perhaps, and a red tie.

The Mycroft in his head so seldom matched up with the Mycroft walking the world. It was one of the reasons he made Jim itch so much. He deliberately presented himself as staid, as respectable; as boring. But he never was, and there wasn’t a damn thing Jim could safely predict about him.

Really, it just made Jim want to go ‘round and check up on him.

The security system hadn’t been on the last two times Jim had visited. The psychology there intrigued him; was Mycroft really that confident, or did he secretly lust for a bit of excitement? The barest possibility of it made heat pool in his belly. But he made the same cursory check, because it wouldn’t do to have a promising evening interrupted. 

He walked briskly to the study, smirking at the light fanning out from the half-open door. Tonight, he rather thought he would bargain hard; he’d waited long enough for some touch of that smooth skin. Then the door swung the rest of the way and he was meeting Sherlock’s stunned gaze.

Excitement after all.

“You—” Sherlock choked, hands working helplessly as he stared. Thinner, and that lovely coat was worn, and his shave wasn’t quite so close as he preferred. What a rough life he’d been leading. Jim could sympathise.

“Hi,” he said, and moved to peruse the bookshelf at Sherlock’s left. “Mind moving on? I have a meeting with your brother, you see,” he added in a confidential tone. 

“You have nothing to say to him,” Sherlock said. It was little more than a whisper, and Jim couldn’t resist a peek; oh, what horror in those pretty blue eyes, what shock! 

“Not say, no,” he replied, and slid his tongue over the sharp points of his teeth.

“Stop it,” Sherlock whispered, his face was white with anger and revulsion.

Jim turned to face him, smiling with manic intensity. “You know,” he said in a low voice, leaning closer, “that’s something he hasn’t even asked.”

Sherlock surged forward, knocking Jim back against the shelves with his forearm pressed against Jim’s throat. Jim fumbled for his ankle; got out his smaller knife. Brought it to Sherlock’s lean belly before his lungs could start to burn, used his other hand to clutch that obnoxious fucking hair tight. No escape this time.

“Sherlock!”

And then Mycroft, brown tweed and a dark blue tie, standing in the door. Sherlock, too desperate with rage to turn, his breath hot on Jim’s face, Jim’s knife cool and sharp—

“Children,” Mycroft said, his voice sharp with warning. He walked forward slowly, noting the positions, noting the knife. Jim watched his careful, clever eyes dart this way and that; grinned a bit at Sherlock’s soft mewl of disgust at the inevitable physical response.

He pushed the blade closer, felt Sherlock’s instinctive flinch and turned the blade into it.

“Now,” Mycroft breathed, moving to stand next to them, carefully altering the tableau: he put his hand on Jim’s, sliding his palm over the back of it, urging the knife away. When Jim resisted, he leaned forward with the same deliberate ease and brushed his lips over Jim’s suddenly slack mouth.

Jim dropped the knife, let go of Sherlock; he kissed back hard, trying to bite his way into that lovely mouth. Sherlock stumbled away and he barely noticed. His entire focus was on the sweetness of Mycroft’s tongue, his soft lips—

Then Mycroft had drawn back, Jim staring after him with his mouth just hanging open, oh please come back. But it was more than he had expected, more than he had hoped for, and with a sneaky glance at Sherlock, he knew he was at the end of what he could get tonight.

So he merely licked his lips and smiled.

*********

Neither brother moved until the door had shut quietly, and another two minutes had passed. Long enough for Moriarty to have left. Then Sherlock exploded into action, grabbing Mycroft by the arm and rubbing at his mouth furiously with his sleeve.

“Sher—Sherlock, stop!” Mycroft sputtered, fighting his grip. “Stop it at once!”

“You are going to brush your teeth,” Sherlock said loudly, fighting his instinct to retch. “And then we are going to drink. Heavily.”

“Sherlock—”

He pulled Mycroft into a tight hug, almost a grapple, and hid his face against his brother’s shoulder. Let himself shake. 

Mycroft’s arm was hesitant in wrapping around him.

“Why?” he whispered. 

“We’ll all of us endure a little discomfort before this is over,” Mycroft told him. He stepped back, trying to catch Sherlock’s gaze; he looked mostly concerned for Sherlock, and that made it. That made it burn. 

“I can keep this end, if you can keep yours,” Mycroft added gently.

*********


	5. Chapter 5

*********

Jim rather liked what he’d done with his flat: the ruined walls, where he’d scratched with fingernails and bottle caps and rocks and knives and teeth. The pile of blankets that was his bed. The thick carpet, torn up in some fit of rage he couldn’t quite remember.

He kept the closet locked, so that he didn’t shred his suits. Those he liked, and wanted to keep.

It was almost over. There had been a marked increase in activity ever since that little chat with Sherlock, and Jim couldn’t regret it. For any reason. He tapped his fingers on his lips and tasted gin, and blood. 

He hadn’t been at home. Jim remembered that. He’d walked through the dark, silent house until the rage—how dare he not be there? when Jim wanted him?—had overtaken him, and then he’d thrown a chair into the liquor cabinet, smashing glass, and taken a bottle or two to the bedroom. The guest bed. And then he’d had himself a little fire.

“Fuck you,” he said now to the empty room, and snapped his head ‘round when the door knob turned.

From out the hall, the respectable, boring, fucking beige-painted hall, came Mycroft Holmes, in the charcoal suit Jim had daydreamed of weeks ago, in the red tie. No expression, no words. But there. 

Jim stood slowly, pulling the handgun from under a grey blanket.

Mycroft let the door shut quietly behind him, so quietly that sound of himself swallowing was louder to Jim. He stumbled forward, clutching the gun hard enough to hurt, and managed to stop before he fell into Mycroft, standing less than a foot away. 

“Fuck you,” he said again, swaying a bit.

Mycroft’s expression didn’t chance. He leant on his umbrella, watching Jim with perhaps a hint of the mildest interest. 

“Are you bored of me?” Jim asked, and let his gaze fall to the buttons of Mycroft’s waistcoat. He brought the gun up, tracing the barrel around the topmost button, keeping it light, gentle. It wasn’t until Mycroft’s hand encircled his wrist that Jim snapped, pressing up against Mycroft and pushing back against the door. 

He took the gun and put it in Mycroft’s slack hand, shaping his hand around it, forcing him to hold it. Brought his hand up, so that the barrel was resting under his own chin, tilting his head back to let it dig into his flesh as he stared up at Mycroft.

“You want to,” he said, and laughed breathlessly at Mycroft’s unchanged face. “Pull it. End it. It’s easy.” His voice grew more manic; his breath came faster. “Easier than agents. Can you rely on them? Can you trust them?” He stepped close enough that their bodies touched. “Do it.”

Mycroft’s fingers were curled confidently enough around the gun, but his forefinger would not curl over the trigger. Jim pulled his hand up higher, until he could duck his head around and lick Mycroft’s palm, biting at his pinky and sucking on the end of it.

He stared up at Mycroft, holding that cool gaze as he pulled the barrel of the gun to his mouth, both hands over Mycroft’s, and fit his lips over the barrel. Pulled back to flick it with his tongue.

No change in expression, and Jim pulled the gun closer again, sliding his face along until his mouth was pressed to Mycroft’s wrist, licking and nipping at the fragile skin. Rage tightened his chest and he sucked hard until the words burst out of him, holding Mycroft’s wrist to his cheek as he spat, “The pretty DI, is it? All grey and brown; soft. I can see it.” His smile was sharp and angry. “Could hang that one on the wall; dress him up for any function. Should match most of your wardrobe.”

He brought the gun down again, breathing hard and feeling fever-bright. The barrel pushing against his chest. “I could have him killed. Three's a lot, don’t you think? Two’s as good. Two’s generous.” He laughed, but Mycroft didn’t move. Didn’t blink.

“Do it,” Jim pleaded, and leaned in so close the gun shifted sideways, pressed his mouth to Mycroft’s collar. “It’s not hard. Just pull it.”

The moment was unbearably long, but he couldn’t say how long it had been; it could have been mere seconds before Mycroft put the gun into Jim’s sweats pocket. Jim backed away, feeling dull and broken, and watched him leave. 

Almost over. He rubbed at his face, slid his hand into his pocket to feel again the weight of the gun. It felt good.

*********


	6. Chapter 6

*********

It was a Thursday when the game ended.

The phone didn’t even ring. It went eerily silent, and then a recorded voice told him that the number had been disconnected.

So Moran was gone, too. Jim looked up at the high ceiling of the church and wondered what he felt about that. He had a vague feeling it should have been something.

Instead, he took the scenic route back to his flat, avoiding cameras. He didn’t think Mycroft would be so gauche as to have him picked up off the street, but there was Baby Brother to consider. And wasn’t all of this proof that Mycroft indulged that one just a bit too much?

Shower, shave, and a quick scrub at his teeth. Then black for the funeral. Jim dressed with care, attention to every line and tuck. His mind was still racing, still rebelling frantically at the end game he’d played on himself; no way out. No way back.

He was dizzily in love with it. With him.

The gun fit neatly in his pocket, without disrupting the silhouette much. Mycroft would see it, but perhaps he’d appreciate it. Or the necessity of it.

Jim didn’t bother avoiding the cameras this time; he caught a taxi just outside and stroked his finger over the trigger, waiting for a deviation in the route. None came, and he paid the driver agreeably enough. And there he stood, down the street from his destination, watching the sun sink low.

Banal. The things some people considered beautiful. He shook his head and started up the road.

The front door was open, and he walked in without knocking, pausing to ascertain the stage for the night. There was a light in the dining room and he smiled; a last meal, perhaps? Mycroft was already seated at the small table, lovely in blue again.

“‘evening,” Jim said, and took the seat opposite.

There were no settings, no dishes; Mycroft’s elbows rested gracefully on the table, his fingertips touching ever so slightly. Jim’s lips parted as he stared at them. There was a small regret in that; it would have been wonderful to have had one more exploration of that soft skin.

“All over then, is it?” Jim asked, lounging back in his chair, hand resting comfortably on his pocket. 

“Yes,” Mycroft said. Short, but not clipped. Neither angry nor excited. Simply done. Finished. He’d already brushed the dust of it from his hands.

“Are you going to have me killed now?” Jim asked, the faintest smile forming.

“Yes,” Mycroft said.

Jim’s smile grew and he closed his eyes, leaning his head back. “Darling. Would you permit me the honour?”

Mycroft did not disappoint. “No.”

Jim laughed, a small, breathless, joyful sound. “What if I insist?” he asked, and pulled the gun from his pocket.

He was expecting the hand to grab his wrist, for the gun to be taken, but he wasn’t ready for the violence of the action, or the handle to be smashed into the side of his face with not inconsiderable force. “He said no,” Sherlock Holmes said, glaring down at him through the haze, through the ringing, white with fury and righteous anger.

Glorious. Jim laughed again, and Mycroft’s people swarmed him, pulling Sherlock away and pulling him to his feet, checking for other weapons as they secured his arms. Jim went with them willingly, feeling light, light—

Sherlock was there again when they pushed him into a car, and Jim aimed one last, bright smile at his tightly drawn features. “Look who’s gone and grown up,” he said, and shook his head in mock sorrow. “And still not even half the man your brother is.”

“I don’t have to be,” Sherlock spat, and shut the door.

*********


	7. Author's Afterward

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I was encouraged to post this as kind of explanation of the fic, because that's what it is, so. If you have any questions/thoughts on the fic, here's where I may answer/elucidate.

Oh. My. Croft.

Seriously.

Sherlock fucking Holmes.

Can you do anything right?

—-

Do you know what a consequence is? It’s when you do something, and something else happens as a direct result of your action. It’s kind of like, oh, shooting a gun and then there are bullets in the wall. Kind of like that. Except the consequence hits you.

Like when you steal evidence and warrant cards—oh wait. Sorry. No consequence. Like when you wander off with a serial killing cabbie—oh wait, no consequence. Like when you drug your friend—oh wait, no consequence again!

Of course you don’t know what a consequence is. They never fucking happen to you.

Enter Jim Moriarty.

—-

Everyone acts like Jim’s the one who’s out of touch with reality, but do we remember the Great Game? Great episode, right? All those people being strapped to bombs, Sherlock has to solve puzzles to save them—

and then a little old lady gets blown up.

And Sherlock is kind of sad.

Because it isn’t fair, because he totally figured it out and it’s cheating that Jim still blew her up!

“People have died.”

“I’M AN EVIL MURDEROUS PSYCHOPATH. OF COURSE PEOPLE HAVE FUCKING DIED. WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU??”

—-

Quick question: you are meeting your arch-enemy at a pool at midnight to settle things. What do you bring with you?

A. a gun and a flash drive  
B. his best friend strapped to a bomb and a bunch of snipers

This is why Jim doesn’t respect you, Sherlock.

It’s like you brought a couple of Dr. Peppers to his kegger. 

—-

Hey, remember a Scandal in Belgravia? That awesome scene where Irene is like “got you by the short hairs, Mr. Holmes” and Mycroft is like “right watch me break the bank of England like this fucking check won’t bounce I’ll just sign it Mickey Mouse shall I” and Sherlock is alone on his sofa of shame

when he gets it. He gets it! SHERLOCKED.

And the bad guy is routed! The day is saved! Except. Wait.

Irene isn’t the bad guy.

Jim is.

And Jim has still fucking won.

Because Bond plane and all the resources (money, time, intelligence, plants in various terrorist cells, not to mention THE BODIES) are all fucking wasted. Ruined. Finished. Lost. And we fucking applaud because Sherlock has… stopped Irene?

When it’s still his fault that Jim wins?

Mais, non! It’s Mycroft’s fault! Mycroft even says so! Because Mycroft brought Irene into Sherlock’s life! (Except Jim had planned for that, too, but whatevs.) We’re willing to let Sherlock walk away from that one and be the hero, while Mycroft is the stooge. Because he takes responsibility for Sherlock’s massive fuck-up. And we let him.

And Sherlock let him.

Because… consequences? What are those?

Enter, Jim Moriarty.

—-

Reichenbach isn’t even much of a consequence, y’all.

I know, John’s precious soul-wrenching tears. Oh, dear Martin Freeman. Your pain is beautiful. But seriously? Season 3 will get here sooner or later, and Sherlock will be back, and your pain will be forgotten because that’s what happens. Holmes returns and Watson comes back to life. Oh, the springtime of the soul! Consequences? What consequences?

(I’m hoping there will be, in the BBC take. But we’ll see.)

No.

Dial it back to Mycroft, the British Government. The most powerful man on the planet (so long as someone keeps Lestrade from realising how fucking attractive he is because WOW). The man with a weakness that Jim Moriarty has been exploiting like Mycroft was fucking Microsoft Windows and Jim was a Trojan virus.

I’m. I’m going to back away from all of that now.

Anyway! Jim knows that Sherlock is Mycroft’s weakness. Hell, he tested it, didn’t he? With Irene. Sherlock gets all fucked up on praise and lets his brother down.

So sad. 

So delicious.

—-

When Mycroft wants to find Jim, he finds Jim and has him tortured for a bit.

But Jim’s got his key or whatever and Mycroft has to release him. Anyway. All that to say, if Mycroft is willing to deal with the consequences of just killing Jim Moriarty, then Jim Moriarty is dead.

But Jim always stacks that deck to make it more of an inconvenience to kill him. That’s how he survives.

So.

For my fic:

Does Mycroft kill Jim, and deal with 1. Sherlock’s friends dying or 2. having to rescue/relocate Sherlock’s people when that’s clearly not what Sherlock wanted for them? Does he make Sherlock’s suicide worth exactly nothing? 

Or does he put up with Jim’s advances?

Jim stacks the deck, you see. There has to be an end point, because Mycroft isn’t going to endure Jim forever. His patience will wear thin. Also, Jim’s hold on reality will break. So: until Sherlock destroys Jim’s network.

Jim can’t actually force Mycroft into anything. He can’t hurt him. Mycroft knows that he himself is too great an asset to the nation to be threatened that way. Mycroft will have Jim killed if he himself is threatened.

It becomes a little game, of Jim being creepy and invasive but not hurting him—because Mycroft may have the chills while Jim is around, but at the end of it, Jim dies. And Mycroft isn’t going to waste time thinking about him after that; he’s far too busy. 

Cost/benefit analysis. It’s better to let Jim play, just as long as he remains sane enough to stick to the rules.

—-

But what if Sherlock finds out?

What if Sherlock finds out exactly what his brother is putting up with, to keep his friends safe and Sherlock’s plan alive?

What if Sherlock is forced to realise that he is his brother’s weakness, and that Jim knows it and has planned for it?

What if Sherlock meets a consequence?

—-

This is how a great man becomes a good man.


End file.
